


A Glass Neither Full Nor Empty

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Series: Home Brew [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like they're staring into different ends of the same glass, missing each other in the distortion and blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glass Neither Full Nor Empty

Grantaire sweeps his brush across the canvas, nearly knocking his bottle of beer over with his elbow. When he’s not working at the Musain, he’s painting. Trying to paint, really. “A muddle of talent and apathy, dampened by drunkenness” was how his studio art professor had described him with disdain, before university expenses had become too much and the idea of an art degree seemed like a mountain useless to climb.

The inspiration he’d felt his first year at uni had never really come back. He tries; some days his fingers itch to capture glowing words and a radiant face in paint, but when he stands in front of the canvas, he knows nothing will compare to the real thing, and he can’t bear to ruin it all with the muddy nihilism on his brush. So he doesn’t bother at all anymore, and instead paints the faces of randoms, paints scenery, paints abstract pieces when the Amis leave and he’s left with a hurricane in his chest that he has no name for.

He stores his paintings in a closet in the basement where prying eyes won’t find them. It’s one thing to have his pessimism torn down with Enjolras’ ferocious words and disdainful eye, it would be another for those eyes to see his feelings splashed hopelessly onto a canvas, to see that cupid’s bow mouth turn down in pity.

Today it’s just scenery that’s pushed its way out of his head. An apocalyptic wasteland with a bunker in the foreground, a crumbling city in the distance, and a man dressed in rags dragging himself across the plain as he leans on his staff, one hand stretched toward the salvation of the bunker. The colours are muted, greys and blacks and tans, but there’s a light in the open window of the bunker, leaking through the cracks in the boards on the other windows, through the holes in the roof. The light illuminates the traveller’s haggard face.

He goes outside for a smoke while he lets the finished painting dry, and manages to hide it away in the basement just in time to get dressed and go into work. His fingers are still covered in paint, stained even though he washes them a dozen times. Most customers don’t notice, or at least don’t care enough to comment, happy with their booze and their inane conversation at the end of the day, or the rugby game on television, or the table in front of them to contemplate, or whatever.

“Smells like turpentine,” Combeferre comments as he and Enjolras sit down at the bar, Enjolras nodding a silent hello.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Grantaire holds up his hands and wiggles his colourful fingers. “I was painting earlier, before we opened. Stained m’self pretty good. I can’t get this paint off at all.”

Enjolras frowns. “I didn’t know you painted.”

“He does,” Combeferre answers, sparing Grantaire from stammering out some strange reply and making a fool of himself. “But he has yet to show us any of his masterpieces.”

“They’re hardly masterpieces,” he rolls his eyes and mimes swatting Combeferre with his rag. “It’s what I do when I’m bored. Or whatever.”

He’s flagged by another customer, and so leaves the conversation with a quick nod, sliding with ease across the counter to his left to stand in front of the newcomer and ask for an order, which he pours and mixes with dexterity, already knowing that the man doesn’t want conversation, simply from his expression. It’s a talent he has, reading people. Most people, at least, he thinks as he slides back down to Enjolras and Combeferre, who are mid-conversation.

“—the politicians will have to listen to that, won’t they? If we get enough people out there, enough sign carriers and chants and speeches? If it’s big enough, it’ll make the news and they’ll have to listen.”

Combeferre pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “I’d think so. Or at least they’d be forced to state their position on the legislation.”

“Fair enough.”

“Planning another one of your doomed events to change the world?” Grantaire grins at them, pouring Enjolras his usual glass of ice water and Combeferre his usual rum and coke. “I thought maybe you’d figure out the futility of it all by now.”

“What we’re doing is not futile,” Enjolras starts, thumb and forefinger hitting the countertop.

“The state of the world seems to think differently.” He hates the hope-thing in his chest that starts to bloom when he hears Enjolras’ speeches, when Enjolras’ eyes are on him. He hates it as much as he loves it, avoids it as much as he craves it. This is the only way he knows how to shoot it down while simultaneously feeding it.

“It’s lovely that you feel free to express your opinion, but do you have any idea of the things the poor and homeless go through?” Enjolras is frowning at him, staring at him, and his chest feels like it’s expanding rapidly. “They don’t have all the privileges we do as students, as middle class people. We have the upper hand, you know. We have money and places to sleep and job or housing security. And you think we won’t do anything just by demanding they be treated right, demanding they be taxed less and the rich more?”

Grantaire sucks in a breath, quick and tight through his nose as he rolls his lips under to bite them. He tries not to grip the shaker in his hand quite so hard. There are some things he doesn’t want the Amis, or Enjolras in particular, to know about. Not yet, not ever. He sets the shaker down on the counter behind him and lets a neutral expression settle on his face.

“I’m going out for a smoke. Holler if someone needs a drink, or make them get it their own damn self.” He swings himself round the edge of the counter and saunters outside, cigarette at his lips. He leans against the brick as he watches the tip catch and flare, exhaling his first drag out into the evening sky, and thinks of paintings hidden in a closet.

**

“Why does he always _do_ that?” Enjolras grumbles, shaking his glass to watch the ice clink together. “He can’t believe everything he says. He just can’t.”

The expression on Combeferre’s face is that of infinite patience mixed with an exasperation that’s usually reserved for Coufeyrac. “Enjolras, he thinks you’re the greatest thing that’s ever existed.”

“I hardly—” But Combeferre holds up a hand to stay his reply.

“He thinks you’re incredible. He thinks everything you say is amazing. At the meetings he hangs on to your every word. But he also knows there’s no way you’re going to notice him. So he does that. He pisses you off because it’s the only way he knows how to get your attention.”

“He could try talking to me like a normal person.”

“Enjolras, you’re not a normal person to him. Unlike the rest of us, he’s not a student. Never was. He’s never seen you outside of this bar. He’s never seen you outside of the meetings and your speeches. You’re like a god to him. He won’t talk to you like a normal person because he doesn’t know what to talk to you about. As far as he knows, all you like is politics and revolution and related subjects. He sees you from a distance. He doesn’t think he _could_ talk to you.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Everyone knows it. He thinks he’s hiding it, but he’s really quite obvious. We don’t mention it, of course. Embarrassing him would only make it worse.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras looks back at his glass. Most of the ice has melted, only a flat little sliver floats in the centre.

**

Enjolras is still staring at his glass when Grantaire comes back inside. He’s not sure what’s so interesting about the tumbler of water, but it’s got the orator captivated. He makes some quip about secondhand drunkenness as he pushes a little dish of pistachios towards Combeferre. He knows the man prefers pistachios to the standard peanuts, and doesn’t mind obliging. Combeferre smiles and cracks a nut, popping it into his mouth as Grantaire spins away to take care of other customers. He feels eyes on his back as he works, but every time he turns, Enjolras’ eyes are back on his glass of water.

He refills it four times. Enjolras’ smile of thanks seems just a little bit kinder each time.


End file.
